Page 16 of My Lady Melisende (Ladies Least Likely #6)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T he house was eerily quiet. Philip held still, listening. A door closed on the floor above, where the servants had their quarters. Footsteps passed on the servant’s stair, then the green baize door opened below him, onto the first floor where the grand duke had his rooms.

Melisende’s boudoir, where he sat in her dressing room, lay on the second floor, but she hadn’t set foot in it. She’d been at her father’s bedside since he was carried home in his coach from the count’s house, his mouth foaming spittle, his heart pumping furiously, but his limbs frozen as if he’d been struck by a wizard’s spell.

Philip hadn’t considered going to his own home. Perhaps he ought to have. It would not look well, the grand duke falling into a fit when his noble—no, royal —daughter was discovered at a masquerade alone in a room with a worthless Irishman.

But he couldn’t leave Melisende. Not when she might need him.

The door peeked open, and a maid entered with a basin of warm water. She startled and blushed when she saw him. Philip smiled cordially.

“Go about your business, Ivy. Don’t mind me.”

She squeaked a response as she curtsied, blushing all the more furiously. A different maid, the one with the Yorkshire accent, had brought him a dressing robe of the grand duke’s, a gaudy banyan in yellow quilted satin, and she had fluttered and blushed too when Philip addressed her. He’d been grateful for the change of costume. It was better than sitting with his knees bared to the world, blood smeared on his tunic.

Melisende’s blood. He couldn’t think around that image in his mind. The thought of her in danger froze out every other concern. He could not let her be hurt again.

Little Ivy’s hand trembled as she trimmed the candle set on the table beside him, and Philip gave her what he hoped was a fatherly smile. Maids had begun blushing around Philip at fourteen, when his face matured into these lines and his form turned from a boy’s to a man’s. He’d never taken advantage; his mother was strict about not harassing staff. Saoirise Devlin, née O’More, had been treated lowly one too many times on her own account.

But Philip found his looks quite useful in easing his way through school, once his fellows learned he had a pair of fives to answer any taunts. And in university, he’d discovered that close attention, with a few admiring words, were powerful charms that could achieve more than looks alone. It was no secret among Fox’s network of spies the role he best played. There were the Knuckles, the Ferrets, the Diplomats, and the Blades. Philip was The Face, the one they sent to crack a woman.

Melisende of Merania would not be taken in by a face. She would not succumb to guile. She saw through charm immediately—it was a weapon of her own, one she wielded to great effect, as Philip had seen, at least when she chose to employ it.

Melisende of Merania would not be cracked, not by any methods Philip knew to employ.

And he could not, could not , allow her to leave him.

The door opened, and she stood before him. Her hair had fought free from its pins, falling in wild loops down her back. The caftan that had draped her lay tucked over one elbow, revealing the small bodice, embroidered belt, and ballooning pantaloons. The cut on her arm and shoulder had been daubed free of crusted blood—someone must have tended her while she was with her father—but the linen bandages bore a rusty stain. Her magnificent costume was in tatters, and she had never looked so beautiful.

Philip stood. Without a word, she walked across the room and into his arms.

She was the perfect height to press her face into his neck. He’d noticed that before. She could rest her head on his shoulder without strain, and he merely need turn his head to place a kiss in her hair. He stroked the waves cascading down her back, softer than damask silk. She smelled of iron and something acrid, the sharp odor of a sickroom, and her own warm neroli scent beneath it all.

If she left his arms, it would tear away a part of him. The greater part, he feared, and he’d be dealt a wound from which he’d never recover.

“The duke?” he asked.

“Is resting, finally. He came to his senses at last, and knew me, but he is very weary. The doctor says it is apoplexy.” She burrowed into his shoulder, and Philip bit back a wince as she touched a bruise the thief had left on him.

“The doctor said some paralysis is to be expected, or palsy. And there may be a softening of the brain. It could have killed him, Philip.”

“But it did not.” He soothed his hand through her hair with one hand, cradling the back of her head with his other. He tingled at the press of her body against his, the warm fullness of her in his arms. She was so straight and strong and fierce, able to bend, but unbreakable. She had fought for her life tonight, then fought for her father’s life.

At least, he hoped she was unbreakable. He could not be the one to break her.

“Do you wish water for a bath?”

“The basin will be enough. I am so weary I should sink into the tub and drown.”

“I won’t allow that.”

“You are still here.”

“I hoped to make myself useful.”

He reached for the cloth beside the basin the little maid had set near him. She watched them, wide-eyed, longing in her eyes, then she ducked her head and hurried into the adjacent bedchamber.

“That stings.” Melisende flinched as he unbound the bandage on her arm and ran the cloth over the cut.

“Salt. Our nurse back at the castle swears it will ward off infection.”

“Is she where you learned your remedies?”

“That, and my mother, only I beg you will not praise my mother’s folk wisdom before her London friends. She is trying very hard to be a baronet’s lady and make my sisters into proper baronet’s daughters.”

Melisende held silent, as if mentally measuring the distance between an Irish baronet and a grand duke in charge of his own principality. The gap was vast.

She would assume he had stayed to cozen her, plead his case.

She would be right.

He circled the cloth over the cut on her arm. “What happens now to your quest?”

She groaned, leaning her head toward him. He ruffled another kiss through her hair, smelling smoke from the coal brazier.

“I cannot leave him when he is ill. I doubt he is fit to travel. But to stay here…” Her voice faded to a whisper.

Philip understood, and his gut clenched at the realization. “You want him in Merania, if things are near an end.”

“I want him in Merania regardless. He should live to reign in the country he loves, and he should be buried in the crypt with his ancestors, when it comes to that. God willing, that will be many years yet.” She crossed herself quickly. Her fingers skimmed the broad lapels of Philip’s dressing gown. Heat sprang to life beneath his skin.

“If you stay here, we shall have to marry,” he told her.

She stirred against his shoulder. “I?—”

“And if you travel to Merania, we shall have to marry. So that I can protect you.”

Her quiet breath, as she turned her head toward him, wafted across his neck. Need sparked along his back, tunneling to the base of his spine.

She lifted her gaze to his, a shadow in her eyes and a knowing curl to her lips. “You could come with as a bodyguard if you wished to protect me.”

“I should have to be your husband so I can dine with you. Share a carriage with you. Share your bed.”

The words hung in the air between them, shimmering. Bed .

She shivered and turned her face into his shoulder again. “If it is near the end, now, I will take him somewhere quiet. London will forget all about us.”

He wouldn’t.

“I can have a special license within three days.”

Bishops gave them out, he thought. Or only archbishops? And they were expensive. Philip would have to beg his father for the money.

His father would be delighted that Philip was wedding a grand duke’s daughter. He would not be impressed by the manner in which the wedding had come about.

His brothers would laugh and call it one of Philip’s typical escapades. His sisters would flutter between fawning over Melisende and fretting that he’d cast shade on the family by compromising his bride.

His mother would weep if he left the British Isles to follow a foreigner, and she would consider him living in sin until he had a proper marriage in the Catholic church, with Mass and the blessing of a priest.

Melisende peeked up at him, her raspberry lips within reach of his mouth. “And if I refuse?”

A growl rose from his throat. He swallowed it and focused on dabbing the cloth over the cut above her breastbone. Above the swell of her beautiful breasts, full and sweetly rounded. The sight of them made his throat dry.

“You underestimate the power of Lady Cranbury. She knows everyone.”

“In London. I doubt she has much influence in Paris or St. Petersburg. No one will have heard of her in Vienna.”

She knew she could simply run away. From everyone. From him.

And she would not be running away, but toward a throne. A crown. A duchy. The magnificent future she had been born into.

He had nothing left but honesty. “A mere dockworker bested me tonight, and I cannot live with the dishonor. The next time an attacker comes, I want to be between you and the knife.”

She slipped an arm around him, a small concession, but it meant much. “I could not bear for you to be hurt on my account.”

“I am not easy to do away with, my lovely.” He slid the mangled, bloody bodice from her shoulder, the delicate fabric giving way easily. She brought up an arm to hold it against her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a shift.

“What you cannot bear, I presume—” Philip drew the small sleeve along her arm, allowing her modesty— “is marrying so low. You cannot afford to throw yourself away on an Irishman.”

She would want a diplomatic marriage, one that gained her networks in other lands, family might, military. Anything less than a duke was a step down. “And if nothing else, you need that last bargaining chip to pacify your uncle and Rudolf.”

She would do that, he thought, without question. She wouldn’t waste a moment wishing for romance or affection. She knew her marriage was an affair of state and she would bring all her strategy to bear when a marriage became necessary.

Which left Philip with nothing. His chest clenched, caging his breath.

“I can do nothing from here until my father is well.” She pulled her arm out of the other sleeve.

And if her father died, her one chance of returning to her country and regaining her place would be to marry her cousin, unless she had other powerful friends he didn’t know about. Voronsky was a powerful friend, and he had worked against her easily, though claiming it was for her own protection.

“Mum.” Ivy hovered in the door. “I laid out a bed gown, and Agnes brung a warmer for your bed. Shall I undress you now?”

Philip lifted Melisende in his arms. He was a bit surprised she didn’t protest. She must be very weary.

“You and Agnes may leave, Ivy. I’ll tend your mistress. We’ll ring if she requires anything.”

Ivy’s eyes widened, and she scurried away. Melisende sighed as Philip carried her into her bedchamber. “Frau Gramper will have something to say about this. In fact, I hear Agnes telling her now.”

“The good frau is with your father. I’ve heard her going back and forth. She won’t leave his side, which is the only reason you did.”

The curtains had been pulled back on the four poster bed and a fire banked in the grate. A candle burned on a small vanity table near the door to the hallway, and a nightstick stood on the small table beside the bed.

Philip draped the robe around Melisende’s head. He wanted her naked and in his arms—the very image sent a bolt of lust through his groin—but he would lull her with gentle care first, soft touches and sweet words. Then he would demand full surrender.

“I believe your talents are wasted as a spy.” She lay back on the bed and allowed him to peel her pantaloons from her. Her legs were long and firm, the legs of an active woman, often on her feet. “You are made to be a Charles Fox, a high official pulling the strings of government. A diplomat and a strategist.” She opened one eyes to squint at him. “And to think I once presumed you a feckless drunk and idle seducer of women.”

“That reputation is not entirely undeserved.” He reached inside the open front of her bedgown, hanging loose with the laces untied, and pulled out the crimson bodice. He let his hand skim her breast, and she shivered. So did he.

“Better?” He dove his hands into her thick hair, scrubbing his fingers along her scalp, and her eyes drifted closed, her face a study of bliss. He lowered her against the enormous pillows and stretched out on the bed beside her. The firelight danced low in the grate, the embers of coals softly hissing, and the tiny flames in the candles bobbed and glowed.

“It could be a staged marriage,” he said softly.

Her eyes fluttered open. “What do you mean?”

She rested a hand on his arm, as if seeking his warmth. He was more than glad to give it.

“It’s the solution, really. I can travel with you if I am presumed your husband. I can guard you at bed and board. And then, when you no longer have need of me…”

God forbid that day ever arrived. The thought was a black tunnel with a roaring abyss at the end of it.

She curled her hand around the back of his neck. That small gesture made him want to submit to her, bend his head before her and declare himself her subject, hers to command in all things. He grappled for the thread of his game. The small lures to lay down, one by one.

“But if we shared a bed,” she murmured, and her voice wavered. If only that thought thrilled her as much as it did him.

“We do not consummate. It would be possible to annul, if necessary.”

“Would I have to prove I am…intact?”

He pushed back an immediate swell of rage. She was a beautiful woman, and she moved in sophisticated courts. Few foreign courts were as concerned with chastity as that of King George. Nevertheless, he wanted his sword in hand so he could run through every bastard who’d had the great good fortune to touch her, eliminating them from the earth and from her mind. He would have no rivals.

“Have there been others?” he growled.

She stroked his jaw with one hand, running her fingers over his evening stubble. “No one who mattered, and I have been careful. But if I don’t wish to have some judge examining me.”

“We could claim I am impotent.”

She smiled and with her hip nudged lightly at his manhood, pressing quite noticeably against her. She gave a throaty chuckle.

“I’m afraid it will be all too easy to disprove that claim, Devlin.”

“We say our vows before an Anglican priest. That won’t be a marriage in the eyes of the Church.”

“Hmm. That’s true.”

“The gossips here would be satisfied. You would have me to protect you. I won’t allow anyone to harm you again.”

“Rudolf might try to hurt you.”

“Then you help me improve my swordsmanship.” He ran a heavy hand along her body, tracing each swell and curve. “Only, do not ask me to keep my hands from you. Our marriage cannot be entirely chaste.”

“That is unwise.” Melisende fisted her hands in the lapels of his banyan, telling him what she wanted was the opposite of what she should.

“Very unwise,” he agreed, and kissed her.

Everything that had transpired between their last embrace and this whisked away, a pesky interruption. Her mouth was as hot and hungry as his. She tugged him closer, not satisfied until he lay practically atop her. A shift of fabric, her robe and his, and he could be inside her.

He wanted that. Quite intensely.

He settled for ravishing her mouth, cradling her tongue with his, and reveling in how she welcomed him. Her skin slid like flower petals beneath his fingertips. When he slipped his hand into the open front of her gown she arched her back, thrusting her breast against his palm, silently begging.

“Marry me, Melisende.”

“I need time to consider.”

He followed his hands with his tongue and was satisfied to hear her breath turn to quick pants and quiet whimpers. He pushed up the hem of her gown and moved down her body, mapping the silken heat of her with his lips. She tasted of marzipan.

“Philip,” she moaned when he settled between her legs.

“Do you wish me to stop?”

“What are you—?” She grabbed his hair as he blew out a soft breath.

Had no one ever pleasured her? He throbbed at the thought of being her first. “Looking,” he said. “Tasting. You will marry me now?”

“I’m not persuaded…”

He licked the warm folds of flesh, finding her firm bud. “Marry me.”

“Yes,” she begged, clawing his hair. “Yes.”

She rose to his mouth, offering herself to the caresses of his tongue, and he marveled at the quiver in her thighs, her soft cries as her pleasure mounted, so swiftly, so powerful. When her release came he could taste the triumph, feel her absolute surrender in the shudder that racked her body.

She slid her hands inside his robe and clung to his shoulders as he climbed her body and pressed soft kisses along her breasts, her neck, her earlobe. She heaved a happy sigh and turned her face toward his.

“If we cannot consummate…”

“I know.” He pulled the coverlet over her legs. His body ached, thrilled and impatient at the same time, but he could deal with his own needs later. For now, she needed to be safe and replete with him.

She sighed again as he pulled her into his arms, firm against his body.

“Shall I go?” he whispered.

She breathed the command from the edge of sleep, her breaths already becoming even.

“Stay.”

He did. He let the candles gutter and the fire dwindle, bringing his thoughts back from mapping the course of his future. He held his future, here in his arms.

He risked everything if this gamble didn’t pay. But this gamble was worth his life.